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warehouses for this daily
chore, Pomp preferred the old wooden paddle he had used on many a canoe trip
exploring sloughs along the lower Columbia. That it might not be perfectly sterile,
perhaps explaining why several of his wines had gone “off,” mattered less to
him than the character it added.
Replacing the
cheesecloth over the vat, he stopped at a small table, polished a wineglass
with a cotton towel, then pulled a bung from a purple-stained oak barrel and
used a pipette “thief” to pull a sample of merlot and transfer it to the glass.
He held the
glass up to the single light bulb hanging from above, swirled the ruby liquid
and then took a deep, satisfying sniff before stepping back into the other half
of the barn and pulling the door securely closed behind him.
The rest of the
barn was divided into two quarters: his print shop and his collection room.
This was the
latter. He plopped down in an old leather recliner to sip his wine and admire the
wall hung with oiled iron animal traps, more canoe paddles of all sizes,
tomahawks from the Shoshone Tribe, ancient snowshoes, and his collection of
vintage firearms – all authentic. The library had its McLoughlin Collection.
This was the Charbonneau Collection.
Nearest his
chair was a rough wooden wall of framed photos of his four ex-wives and eight
children. His first wife bore him no offspring, or there’d have been more.
“Ah, you
slacker, you,” he said to her photo as he swirled the wine under his nose.
Charbonneau’s
one big regret was that he didn’t see more of his kids. He scanned their framed
school photos. At top were the oldest, Pomp Jr., Sacajawea and Clark, a trio of
dashing, dark-eyed teens. Next were Wife No. 3’s preteen offspring, T.J. (for
Thomas Jefferson), and the girl, Montana. At the bottom were Wife No. 4’s
little girl, Dakota, and the preschool twins, Jean and Baptiste.
Also there:
framed mementos, such as a sample of the $2 bills he had printed up and
regularly handed out to the homeless back in D.C. before some Starbucks cashier
had noticed she had a till full of bills on which Thomas Jefferson sported a
Snidely Whiplash mustache.
About that
time, Wife No. 4 had thrown him out, so Charbonneau had decided it might be a
good idea to move to the West Coast before the Secret Service tracked him down.
When he scanned a map, the nearby community of Charbonneau, Oregon, had
originally drawn him to the Portland area.
He sipped the
merlot – good plummy notes developing, he noticed – and remembered the
printing order he’d stuffed in a pocket.
He pulled it out
and mentally calculated the income it would bring. Thank God, maybe he’d keep
the collection agencies at bay for another month. Child-support was killing
him.
Not only that,
but Pomp Jr. was graduating from high school on Sunday back in Virginia and Dad
had promised him a Trans Am for graduation. While Charbonneau tended to live
for today and didn’t worry much about his children’s future, a Charbonneau
promise meant something.
Pushing himself
out of the armchair, he stepped through another door, into his print shop.
A look at his
watch told him he had a few minutes before his dinner would be hot. Thinking
ahead to the weekend when he’d tackle the art prints, he set his wineglass
safely out of the way and busied himself cleaning up from his last job: the
Flying Canoe first-day cover.
A grin flashed
across his face as he studied the extra copy he’d kept to frame for his wall.
He and his ancestors had long resented the short shrift historians gave Toussaint.
From the time he was knee-high to his grandfather, Pomp had heard the family’s
belief that the Corps of Discovery should have been known as the Lewis, Clark and
Charbonneau Expedition.
So Pomp had
exercised his wicked sense of humor and put Toussaint in the canoe, too, when
he replicated the Flying Canoe first-day cover for Pieter van Dyke.
Chapter 16
Friday, June 14
At 8 a.m.,
chore, Pomp preferred the old wooden paddle he had used on many a canoe trip
exploring sloughs along the lower Columbia. That it might not be perfectly sterile,
perhaps explaining why several of his wines had gone “off,” mattered less to
him than the character it added.
Replacing the
cheesecloth over the vat, he stopped at a small table, polished a wineglass
with a cotton towel, then pulled a bung from a purple-stained oak barrel and
used a pipette “thief” to pull a sample of merlot and transfer it to the glass.
He held the
glass up to the single light bulb hanging from above, swirled the ruby liquid
and then took a deep, satisfying sniff before stepping back into the other half
of the barn and pulling the door securely closed behind him.
The rest of the
barn was divided into two quarters: his print shop and his collection room.
This was the
latter. He plopped down in an old leather recliner to sip his wine and admire the
wall hung with oiled iron animal traps, more canoe paddles of all sizes,
tomahawks from the Shoshone Tribe, ancient snowshoes, and his collection of
vintage firearms – all authentic. The library had its McLoughlin Collection.
This was the Charbonneau Collection.
Nearest his
chair was a rough wooden wall of framed photos of his four ex-wives and eight
children. His first wife bore him no offspring, or there’d have been more.
“Ah, you
slacker, you,” he said to her photo as he swirled the wine under his nose.
Charbonneau’s
one big regret was that he didn’t see more of his kids. He scanned their framed
school photos. At top were the oldest, Pomp Jr., Sacajawea and Clark, a trio of
dashing, dark-eyed teens. Next were Wife No. 3’s preteen offspring, T.J. (for
Thomas Jefferson), and the girl, Montana. At the bottom were Wife No. 4’s
little girl, Dakota, and the preschool twins, Jean and Baptiste.
Also there:
framed mementos, such as a sample of the $2 bills he had printed up and
regularly handed out to the homeless back in D.C. before some Starbucks cashier
had noticed she had a till full of bills on which Thomas Jefferson sported a
Snidely Whiplash mustache.
About that
time, Wife No. 4 had thrown him out, so Charbonneau had decided it might be a
good idea to move to the West Coast before the Secret Service tracked him down.
When he scanned a map, the nearby community of Charbonneau, Oregon, had
originally drawn him to the Portland area.
He sipped the
merlot – good plummy notes developing, he noticed – and remembered the
printing order he’d stuffed in a pocket.
He pulled it out
and mentally calculated the income it would bring. Thank God, maybe he’d keep
the collection agencies at bay for another month. Child-support was killing
him.
Not only that,
but Pomp Jr. was graduating from high school on Sunday back in Virginia and Dad
had promised him a Trans Am for graduation. While Charbonneau tended to live
for today and didn’t worry much about his children’s future, a Charbonneau
promise meant something.
Pushing himself
out of the armchair, he stepped through another door, into his print shop.
A look at his
watch told him he had a few minutes before his dinner would be hot. Thinking
ahead to the weekend when he’d tackle the art prints, he set his wineglass
safely out of the way and busied himself cleaning up from his last job: the
Flying Canoe first-day cover.
A grin flashed
across his face as he studied the extra copy he’d kept to frame for his wall.
He and his ancestors had long resented the short shrift historians gave Toussaint.
From the time he was knee-high to his grandfather, Pomp had heard the family’s
belief that the Corps of Discovery should have been known as the Lewis, Clark and
Charbonneau Expedition.
So Pomp had
exercised his wicked sense of humor and put Toussaint in the canoe, too, when
he replicated the Flying Canoe first-day cover for Pieter van Dyke.
Chapter 16
Friday, June 14
At 8 a.m.,
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